Years passed in an odd silence. From the outside, my life in this world mirrored that of a normal one. I attended elementary school, then middle school in the same Musutafu district as the protagonist of this story, though I never crossed paths with him directly. I was a good student—naturally, having the mind of an adult gave me an unfair advantage in math and history exams. I was quiet, more often observing than participating, and my classmates regarded me as someone a little too serious and hard to read.
The only constant in my social life was Toru Hagakure. Our friendship grew over time, forged in a silent understanding of our shared uniqueness. She was a cheerful and energetic girl, and her invisible presence became something I grew accustomed to. I could tell when she was excited by the rapid swaying of the ribbon in her hair, or when she was sad by the long silences. She, in turn, was the only one I could confide in about my feeling of being "different," even though I never told her the full truth about my reincarnation. To her, I was simply her friend Tatsumi, who just happened to have no visible Quirk.
Inside me, however, the silence was filled with whispers. The heat I had felt in the park that day had never truly gone away. It remained within me like a sleeping ember, a warm core of energy in the center of my chest. I spent years trying to understand it. I tried to summon it at will, sitting in my room, concentrating, trying to feel its presence. It never worked. I pushed myself physically, running until my lungs burned, hoping adrenaline would trigger it. All I got was exhaustion. The heat would only ever pulse faintly during moments of high emotion—when I saw my mother nearly fall down the stairs and panic gripped me, or when I defended Toru from teasing. It was a reactive force, a protective one, but it refused to obey my will.
Frustration was my loyal companion. I lived in a world where power was everything, carrying the knowledge of disasters to come, and I had a mysterious power within me that I couldn't use at all. It felt like having a vault full of treasure without the key. I couldn't just sit and wait. If I couldn't rely on this mysterious power, then I would rely on the only thing I could control—my own body.
Around the age of twelve, I began a secret training regimen. Every morning before the sun rose, I would sneak out of the apartment and run along the riverbank. Every night before bed, I would do push-ups and sit-ups in my room until my muscles screamed. It hurt. It was exhausting. But it was real. Every drop of sweat was proof that I was fighting, that I was not surrendering to fate. I studied the basics of hand-to-hand combat from online videos, practicing movements in front of the mirror until they became muscle memory. I might not have a Quirk, but I swore to myself that I would never be powerless. I was preparing for a war only I knew was coming.
One night, after I had fallen asleep, Sora and Kenji sat at their small kitchen table, accompanied by a cup of warm tea. A comfortable silence blanketed them, broken only by the distant sounds of traffic from outside their apartment window. Sora gazed toward their son's bedroom door, a soft look of worry etched into her face. "He did it again tonight," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I heard him from the bedroom. That gasping sound. He's pushing himself too hard, Kenji."
Kenji sighed and set down his cup. He looked at his wife, his eyes full of understanding. "I know. I saw his running shoes this morning, covered in mud. He must've been up before us."
"Why?" Sora asked, her eyes starting to glisten. "Why is he so hard on himself? He's a good boy. He's smart. He has a good friend like Toru-chan. But... he always looks like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Is it because... his Quirk?" The word "Quirk" was spoken with hesitation. They had long stopped hoping for a late manifestation. Their son, in every practical sense, was Quirkless. In their world, that label carried a heavy social burden.
Kenji reached out and took his wife's hand. "I don't think this is about a Quirk, Sora. Not entirely. Have you ever noticed his eyes? Sometimes, when he looks at something, it's like he's not a fourteen-year-old boy. Like he's seen more than we have."
"I know," Sora admitted, wiping the corner of her eye. "I'm just scared. This world... it's not kind to people who are different. I just want him to be happy. I want him to be safe."
"He'll be okay," Kenji said with calming conviction, though a small doubt stirred in his own heart. "Tatsumi's strength doesn't lie in what he can do with his hands. His strength is here," he said, pointing to his head, "and here," he added, pointing to his heart. "He's a strong kid in the ways that matter most. All we can do is trust him. And love him, no matter what."
Sora nodded, squeezing her husband's hand. They would keep loving him. They would keep supporting him. But deep in their hearts, as parents, the seed of worry remained—a quiet fear for their serious, mysterious son.
I was fourteen when I witnessed the event that reaffirmed all my fears and crystallized my resolve. It was a hot, humid day near the end of the school year. I was walking home, following the usual route that took me through a busy shopping district. Suddenly, an explosion boomed from down the street, followed by panicked screams.
My first instinct, sharpened by a past life that craved safety, was to turn and run. But a dreadful curiosity—and the disturbing knowledge of canon events—kept my feet moving forward. I joined the crowd gathering at the edge of a police line, all eyes fixed on the chaos ahead.
The scene was exactly as I remembered from the anime. Fire raged from shattered stores. Pro heroes I recognized—Death Arms, Kamui Woods, and Backdraft—were on site, but they looked powerless. Kamui Woods couldn't use his wood-based Quirk amid the flames, and Death Arms didn't have the range to reach the main threat. That threat was a disgusting, green, slime-like monster laughing with a bubbly voice—the Sludge Villain. And trapped within his churning body, thrashing in vain, was a boy with spiky blond hair and the same school uniform as mine. Katsuki Bakugo.
I stood frozen. Seeing it in person was a hundred times more terrifying than on a screen. Bakugo's panic was clear, his tiny explosions having no effect on the villain's fluid form. The heroes could only focus on evacuation and damage control. No one could get close.
Beside me, I saw him. A skinny boy with messy green hair, just as iconic—Izuku Midoriya. He was trembling, his notebook dropped to the ground, his face pale with horror and guilt. He had just had his dreams crushed by All Might, I knew that.
As I stood there, analyzing the situation with a cold mind, the heat in my chest began to burn. This time it felt different. Hotter. More urgent. Like a voiceless roar of frustration. I could see it. I could see the weakness. The villain's eyes were a concentrated target! If someone could create a powerful enough wind pressure or a focused attack on that spot, he could be disabled. The heroes didn't have the right Quirks!
My fists clenched so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Move! a voice inside my head screamed. Do something! You know what to do! Use that power! I tried. I summoned every ounce of willpower, trying to pull the heat from my chest, trying to force it out. But all I felt was a painful burning. The power was there, roaring beneath the surface, but the door stayed locked. I was powerless—just like everyone else here.
And then something extraordinary happened. Something that, even knowing it was coming, stunned me to witness with my own eyes. Izuku Midoriya—the same boy who had just been told he couldn't be a hero, the Quirkless boy—broke through the barricade and ran toward the monster. He ran with tears streaming down his face, no plan, no power, driven only by pure instinct to save someone.
I saw him throw his school bag, striking the villain in the eye. I saw him try to dig Bakugo out with his bare fingers. It was the most foolish, reckless, and heroic thing I had ever seen. And it made me feel deeply ashamed of my own paralysis.
That was when, as if inspired by that impossible courage, the number one hero in the world appeared.
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" A voice like thunder echoed through the street. All Might, in his muscular form, landed with a force that cracked the pavement. "I really am pathetic," he said, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He grabbed the villain's arm. "A true hero always finds a way to fight for justice!"
"DETROIT SMASH!" The punch unleashed a wind pressure so intense it felt like a typhoon. The Sludge Villain shattered into pieces in an instant. Bakugo was thrown free, coughing. The sky above us, once clear, turned dark. Clouds gathered rapidly, and moments later, raindrops began to fall. He had changed the weather with a single punch. The awe I felt was overwhelming. This was true power.
Pro Hero Backdraft directed a stream of water from his hydrant arms at the fiercest flames, hissing in frustration. The situation had been dire. They'd managed to contain the damage, but none of them had the right Quirk to deal with the sludge villain. He glanced at the crowd behind the police line, ensuring they stayed back. His trained eyes scanned the faces—fear, curiosity, awful excitement. All normal.
Then, his gaze landed on one face. A boy in a middle school uniform, likely fourteen, with jet-black hair. What made Backdraft pause wasn't the boy's appearance, but his expression. Amid chaos and panic, the boy was utterly calm. No—not calm. It was a cold, intense focus. His eyes weren't wide with fear or awe; they were narrowed in pure analysis. He wasn't observing like a civilian. He was seeing it like a tactical problem on a chessboard. He was assessing the heroes, the villain's weaknesses, and possible angles of attack.
Then, when the green-haired boy ran forward recklessly, Backdraft saw something else in the black-haired boy's face. Not shock. Not admiration. It was frustration—deep and bitter, as if he were angry at himself for not doing the same. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white.
After All Might finished the battle with overwhelming force, the crowd erupted into cheers. Reporters swarmed. But when Backdraft looked back to where the boy had been standing, he was already gone. He had slipped away as the first drops of rain began to fall, vanishing into the crowd without a trace. Backdraft frowned. Years of being a hero had taught him to read people. And that boy... he hadn't been watching like a fan or a bystander. He watched like a soldier—frustrated that he couldn't join the fight. That impression lingered with Backdraft long after the flames were out.
I walked home in the sudden rain, rain brought by a hero. I didn't care that my uniform was soaked. My mind raced, replaying the scene again and again. The heroes' weaknesses. Bakugo's desperation. And above all, Izuku Midoriya's irrational courage.
A boy with no Quirk had done what I didn't dare to. He ran in. While I, with knowledge of the future and a mysterious power sleeping inside me, had just stood there. I had let fear and doubt paralyze me. I had used "lack of control" as an excuse not to act.
I stopped in the middle of the wet sidewalk, letting the rain wash over my face. No more. I was done being a spectator. I was done being a passive observer in this story. I might not know what this power was, or how to awaken it. But that didn't matter anymore.
I would enter U.A.
Not because I wanted to be the number one hero. Not for fame or fortune. But because I refused to be powerless again. I refused to stand by while the people I wanted to protect were in danger. I would train harder than anyone. I would force the dragon within me to awaken. I would forge my body and mind into a weapon.
I looked up at the gray sky, feeling the raindrops on my skin. This wasn't just a story I was watching anymore. This was my life. And I swore—I wouldn't waste this second chance hiding in the shadows. A fight was coming. And this time, I would be ready.